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Writing Dates

Once upon a time, there was a copyeditor in search of love. She met a writer online and they proceeded to have a gorgeous fall together, where they would go out for breakfast and then sit in coffeeshops and try to write, while staring longingly into each other’s eyes. (Ed. note: Love is gross.)

Eventually they shacked up, and our copyeditor went freelance. They went on writing dates on Monday mornings, although our copyeditor was editing and the writer—who was also a professor—was grading papers. But on the weekends, every once in a while, they go out to a coffeeshop. And our copyeditor, at least, gets some writing done.

They are all married now and jaded. The professor ignores our copyeditor if she tries to distract him while grading or if she reminds him to get off facebook and get some grading done because she is tired of hearing him complain about his paper load.

Our copyeditor has always loved the fall, and fall in [location redacted] makes her remember falling in love with her young man. She remembers the time she was forty-five minutes late (and she hates being late) meeting her poetry group because Young Man wanted to play her one more song that he loved, and then another.

Love turns you into an idiot in the beginning, but with any luck, it makes you nicer and wiser later on. And if it doesn’t, well then it at least gives you something to write about. Who do you love?

Yesterday I was getting set to go to this writers’ meet-up about an hour’s drive away. My husband went out before me and scooped up several handfuls of wet pine needles from my windshield, then started the car to let it warm up.

The day before that, I found a leftover rib bone on the counter, and asked him why it was there. He said he had gotten it out of the fridge to let it come to room temperature so the dog would enjoy it more.

I hear you. Yesterday my husband vacuumed up the dog hair and did all of the laundry and ironed clothes and walked one of the dogs … while I read the new Pat Conroy memoir and took a long nap. Need I say more?

This is love: my six year old was invited out by her grandma to buy a Christmas dress Saturday and she wouldn’t go at first because I had a bad sinus headache and she needed to take care of me, ’cause there wouldn’t be anyone else at home.

I convinced her I would nap the whole time she was gone, so she tucked me in, gave me a glass of water and a dripping wet washcloth for my forehead and told meI wasn’t allowed to get up unless I had to go to the bathroom.

Then she kissed my nose, elbowed me through the stomach getting out of the bed, and stole my laptop so I wouldn’t get ‘disdractabled.’

I have spent most of the day on writing related hoopla that has been making me crazy. While I’ve been living in my egotistical little world, my husband has been cooking to make sure that we have homemade soup to bring to work this week, dinner on the table tonight, and has kept the boys (in as much as possible) out of the room so I could rewrite the same sentences over and over and over again.
That’s love.